


fermata

by perbe



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, Non-Chronological Order, Slow Burn, anxiety attack, character with anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:56:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9306053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perbe/pseuds/perbe
Summary: When one is patchwork of growth plates and bruises, it is inevitable that one must admire boys with words a size too big, as if they know down to their bones that they are meant for something greater.I used to burn for you, Otabek thinks.(A character study on Otabek's reaction to his placement at the Grand Prix Finals.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday lara have a fic of basically all our skype conversations
> 
> heads up the french might have mistakes but i rushed through this... i was inspired. also apologies for general mistakes if there are any bc im still on wisdom teeth removal pain meds.

FIVE.

 

It looks like a fairy tale.

 

He pulls his visor up and parks his motorcycle. The streets are empty this time of night, but the stars stretch into infinity above. In their light, Barcelona looks sugar-spun, so delicate that it can hardly exist.

 

His phone vibrates. That makes seventeen calls. He doesn’t mind; his parents and coach will assume he’s sleeping. It is late, and social events have always drained him. As fourth place, no one expects him to linger too long at the banquet. And, it’s unseasonably warm for December and the streets are pleasantly hushed.

 

At 12:00 AM, Otabek Altin sits down on the sidewalk by his bike. He has time, he decides.

 

 

 

 

THREE.

 

He hears that crazy shit goes down at these banquets.

 

“Crazy shit goes down,” Yuri says. His eyebrows draw together as he tries to complain, but he’s been sporting the same, wide smile for hours. Standing side by side with him by the rink, Otabek can feel him nearly-vibrating with leftover adrenaline. The Gala Exhibition must have not been enough to burn it off. “You saw the pictures from last time. It was disgusting, there was champagne everywhere. If you want, we can just go explore again, or watch those movies on the list you showed me.”

 

Otabek takes in the flush of Yuri’s cheeks. If he were fifteen with the world at his fingertips, perhaps he would be just as uninhibited in his happiness. He cannot be sure. Victory is a rare taste.

 

“You should go.” And when Yuri opens his mouth to protest, he adds, “It’s your moment.”

 

Behind them, Jean-Jacques glides onto the ice. The first chords of _Sunglasses at Night_ drift from the speakers, and Otabek leans against the rink. It is his first time watching this program.

 

“I’m surprised he’s not skating to _Oh, Canada_ ,” Yuri says. “Everything else about him is obnoxiously Canadian.”

 

On the ice, Jean-Jacques dons a pair of neon sunglasses.

 

“He told me that he wanted to skate to this, once.”

 

It’s Isabella’s favorite, he had said, an oldie but a goodie. Years later, Otabek is surprised he still remembers.

 

Yuri gives him a strange look. “I thought you didn’t like him.”

 

Otabek shifts, turning his side to the rink. His mind can fill in the blanks; in the bridge of the song is a Triple Axel. It’s the sort of upbeat track that has become J.J.’s staple since becoming competitive. Under Yuri’s scrutiny, his ability to predict the choreography makes him feel awkward, like a child caught where he shouldn’t be. “You pick things up after you’ve been rink-mates for a year.”

 

“Huh,” Yuri considers, smirking. “Well, that explains why you wear those douche-y sunglasses.”

 

The world rights itself. “I would’ve thought you’d comment on the undercut.”

 

Yuri laughs. “What, that’s from that asshole, too?”

 

“More like he got it from me.” Somewhere in the stands, Isabella Yang watches with her teeth bared in wild happiness. Somewhere on the ice, Jean-Jacques pivots and glides into a Quadruple Salchow. Around them all, the music blares so loudly that Otabek can feel his heartbeat aligning with its tempo. He cannot tell if the music has forced all thoughts from his mind, or if he is empty beneath the noise. “So, where did you get your attitude from?”

 

That earns him a soft kick in the calves and an elbow in his ribs. “Same place you got yours,” Yuri says, eyes narrowed. But it is difficult to take him seriously when his lips twitch into a smile.

 

There are patterns to be found everywhere. In music, there are the three beats which haunt the codas of certain classical songs – to underscore an ending. On the ice, there are interloping shapes carved through the turns and twists of other skaters. In his apartment in Almaty, Otabek finds himself tracing figure eights from the window to his kitchen to his desk, as if his legs wanted to cling to the same sensation of creation, of step sequences, of leaving his own faint marks where he might.

 

He half-recognizes this one. Two boys stand a finger’s width apart, their eyes locked on a lone figure on the ice. One of them laughs, almost too softly for a person of big words and loud actions. The other rebalances his weight and they are brought closer still. Their elbows touch. Neither of them quite know what to do with their limbs, and perhaps it is the side-effect of unfortunate growth spurts. Perhaps it speaks of how a boy from a former Soviet Republic can be reborn in the humdrum of a world with two languages, at a rink in which no one quite fits the mold.

 

But he is in Barcelona now, and he hears his name on the speakers. He’s next, and Yuri’s hand leaves a sting behind his shoulder-blades as he takes off his skate guards. He pushes all thoughts of Quebec away as he steps onto the ice.

 

If he two-foots the landing of his Triple Lutz and pops his Triple Axel into a single, it must be something else. The patterns of his life are comforting in their own way. And Otabek has never been less than sure of himself.

 

 

 

 

FOUR.

 

For the first time in weeks, he is alone.

 

The contents of his suitcase are spread out before him. He organizes his socks and folds his scarves. He tucks his laptop into its sleeve and takes out a book for his flight.

 

Soon, he will need to call his family. His sister, Anara, will spam his notifications with chain texts until he takes the hint and calls her. Besides, the other skaters and their coaches have cleared out several floors of the hotel. He has been trailing midnight conversations and stolen bottles of champagne from his room to Yuri since the medal ceremony.

 

He must call his solitude self-imposed.

 

For the first time in weeks, he has no obligations. In the silence of his hotel room, there are no cameras to smile at.

 

He has been set adrift. In the process of discovering people and drowning in cities, he has become untethered from any form of purpose. It is impossible to justify his actions. Eight months ago, he’d finally gained the renown to be coached by Denis Ten – and so he had moved back to Almaty, leaving Quebec and French and a second life behind. His apartment near the base of the mountains doesn’t quite feel like home. Then again, neither did Canada. French never sits right on his tongue. Through the years he’d spent overseas, he’d learned to communicate through the language of gestures.

 

Five years ago, qualifying for the Grand Prix Finals had been a distant dream. It was what he whispered to himself at night. At thirteen, becoming internationally competitive was a secret ambition because in the ballet studio, Otabek moved like he was still fighting in schoolyard tussles. He’d had his first growth spurt at twelve, and he couldn’t stop looking at the weed-thin-and-graceful figures of the others and wanting.  

 

Five years ago, he’d quit ballet. It had been easy to trust that the strength of his limbs would eventually reshape him into something amazing.

 

For twenty-four hours, his short program score had convinced him that he’d succeeded.

 

Now, it is over.

 

But when he catches Yuri’s interviews in that costume that looks so much like fire, Otabek wants to burn. He wants his name seared into retinas so that when people blink, it flashes before their eyes. He wants to be the reason for skaters pushing themselves to add quads and triple axels and combinations to their routines. He wants coaches to whisper _Otabek Altin_ to their students when they’re slacking.

 

Everything has been packed. He sits down at edge of the bed and smooths the creases in his suit. There are three hours until the banquet, and he must occupy himself with something else. Thinking of the day in which he will be forgotten won’t do anything now. He’s already made his choices.

 

Otabek opens his windows and allows the winter in.

 

 

 

 

SIX.

 

“You should’ve won,” J.J. says.

 

“You had the higher base value.”

 

The shadows beneath J.J.’s eyes speak of a hangover. Not from champagne, Otabek reasons. He’d probably found something stronger, to celebrate. A bronze at the Grand Prix Finals is an amazing achievement.

 

A tremor has developed in J.J.’s fingers since Otabek last saw him. As if conscious of how he must look, J.J. grips the frame of the doorway tighter. His knuckles are deathly white in the morning sun. The rest of him is pale, too. For all that he remembers, Otabek has never seen this side of J.J. before. He knows Jean-Jacques as a tad too confident. When one is patchwork of growth plates and bruises, it is inevitable that one must admire boys with words a size too big, as if they know down to their bones that they are meant for something greater.

 

 _I used to burn for you_ , Otabek thinks. Even now, his stomach lurches. It can’t help itself. It recalls years of butterflies. He opens his hotel door wider. J.J. makes no move to come in.

 

“Are you still drunk?” Otabek tries again.

 

J.J. jolts into action. Fumbling with something in his pocket, he backs into the hallway as his grip on the doorway loosens. Standing like that, he looks like he is about to fall; Otabek crosses his arms to keep himself from reaching out. All of J.J. sickly pale. His unsteady hands are the product of his uneven breaths. The rise and fall of his torso is constricted, painful.

 

Their roles have reversed.

 

Otabek stretches his own uncertain hand to the crook of J.J.’s elbow. When he meets no resistance, he hooks his fingers around the man’s bicep and pulls him inside. The door closes. “Come on. Let’s sit down. I have some tea.”

 

All he can summon is relief when the silence breaks.

 

“No, wait.” J.J. has reclaimed his right arm, and he cradles it to his chest as if he’s been scalded. There is a wild glint in his eyes. He’s holding his bronze medal in his hand, clutching it like a lifeline. But no, that’s not right – he is reaching for Otabek with his left arm, the arm with the medal. “Here, I can’t keep this. You should have it. I’ll – “

 

Because muscle memory is what tides him through long summers and growth spurts, Otabek still burns. His chest clings to the sensation of falling, of willing asphyxiation. His skin recreates the goosebumps that lingered on its surface so long ago – when they were just two boys standing by the ice rink, their dreams too large to bear alone.

 

These recollections are tinged with bitterness now. In the figure skating world, months translate into mental years and suddenly, eighteen comes with the aches and pains of forty. So too, Isabella Yang has festered between them, and whatever unnamed thing they’d had before had soured. Whereas Otabek had drawn inward, no longer trusting himself to speak to J.J. as normal, the other had covered up his discomfort with his usual cheer. Time had done the rest. Time had taught Otabek to read Jean-Jacques, and time was what he squandered memorizing the crinkle of his eyes as he truly laughed, and the furrow of his eyebrows when he wanted to be anywhere else. In the end, it was that knowledge which drove them apart. Seventeen is the age of self-consciousness, and Otabek hadn’t been able to accept any plea to be just friends.

 

They have no obligations to each other.

 

“Stop.” Somehow, his voice is steady. “You need to calm down.”

 

J.J. ignores him. “I’ll give you the prize money too. It’s not my style to take anything I don’t deserve. I already talked to the ISU – they told me that they wouldn’t change their minds. But you know what the people have been saying? There are calculations going around with our tallied points. They all say that you should’ve won and – and looking back, I agree. So, are you gonna – are you gonna let me do this?”  

 

Then his mind goes blank and his arms are on J.J.’s, rubbing circles and figure eights into his sleeves. “Breathe.”

 

A shuddering breath. “I’ll beat you fair and square next time, so can’t you, can’t you – “

 

“Breathe.”

 

“We promised!”

 

“Breathe, god damn it, J.J. – “

 

And J.J.’s clutching at his shoulders, eyes wide. “Don’t let them see me like this. I’m not ready to face them. I thought I was fine after I medaled, but – “

 

Later, maybe he will tell J.J. that Isabella won’t mind. That in fact, Isabella already knows about these attacks, and that she’s worrying herself sick somewhere. That he has rarely seen anyone love anyone as much as J.J.’s parents love him. That Celestino and the others were wrong. There is a style for everyone, and J.J. has found his own.

 

“Okay,” Otabek finds himself promising. “Okay.”

 

“Don’t let them,” J.J. repeats, his hands dropping to his sides. There, they twitch ineffectively – like they’re trying to contain themselves, but can’t quite. “S’il te plaît, Otabek, si tu étais vraiment – “

 

“I’ll stay here and keep them out,” Otabek says.

 

He catches a glimpse of a watery smile before he’s pulled down, and there’s snot and tears dribbling down his shirt. He reaches back, and they make a sad attempt at hugging. Otabek doesn’t mind. A sense of peace has settled over him.

 

At some point, his eyes close.

 

He dreams of purple-blue mountains, of smoke rising from chimneys, of Almaty, of home.

 

 

 

 

TWO.

 

 _“Tu n’as pas besoin de ballet! Honnêtement, les styles généraux sont stupids. Nous devons chercher pour nôtre raison d’êtres. Eh, les raisons qui tu aimes le patinage. D’accord?_ _Да?”_

 

_“You’re speaking too fast again.”_

_“My bad, my bad. I just think that you could do it if you tried.”_

_“Thank you?”_

_“You’re pretty good, ya know! I really wanna beat you at the Grand Prix Finals one day.”_

_“What did you say before that?”_

_“Oops, I’m too lazy to say it again. I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.”_

 

 

 

 

EIGHT.

 

“There you are.”

 

It’s Yuri with his hood down, for once. Otabek points it out with no small amount of astonishment.

 

“Shut up,” the boy answers. His face is flushed, which is usually a sign that he’s about to do something surprising. “Gimme your skype.”

 

It’s a command. Otabek smiles. “Okay.”

 

Taken aback, Yuri wipes his phone on his jacket sleeve three times before he passes it to Otabek. The screensaver is of a plate of pirozhkis… and it is just about what Otabek expected. “And don’t leave me hanging,” Yuri demands, “or I’ll start tagging you on Instagram again. I need someone to complain to now that Katsudon is gonna move to Russia.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Embarrassing,” Yuri mutters under his breath.

 

“You’re the one with the red face,” Otabek observes.

 

They run out of time to talk after that, but that’s fine. When he is home, he’ll send Yuri a picture of Almaty at night. It is quite beautiful with the windows of the city glittering like fireflies, and the mountains in the distance. Yes, he thinks Yuri would like that.

 

 

 

 

SEVEN.

 

He wakes alone. There is no note, or medal on his table like he’d feared. But among the string of notifications on his phone is a singular, “King J.J. sends his thanks.”

 

For the first time in what feels like decades, Otabek laughs.

 

 

 

 

ONE.

 

“ _Salut, Otabek. Tu es nouveau?_ ”

 

“ _Oui._ ”

 

“ _Je m’appelle Jean-Jacques! Mais tu dois m’appelles J.J. Est-ce que tu veux devenir amis? Yes or no?_ ”

 

The snow fell around them.

 

“ _Oui, merci_.”

**Author's Note:**

> french translations: 
> 
> 1) S’il te plaît, Otabek, si tu étais vraiment –- Please, Otabek, if you were really
> 
> 2) Tu n’as pas besoin de ballet! Honnêtement, les styles généraux sont stupids. Nous devons chercher pour nôtre raison d’êtres. Eh, les raisons qui tu aimes le patinage. D’accord? -- You don't need ballet! Honestly, general styles are stupid. We should look for our own reasons to be (rough translation, but it basically means reasons of existence). Eh, the reasons that you love skating. Yeah? 
> 
> 3) Salut, Otabek. Tu es nouveau? -- (Very informal) Hi, Otabek. Are you new? 
> 
> 4) Je m’appelle Jean-Jacques! Mais tu dois m’appelles J.J. Est-ce que tu veux devenir amis? -- My name is Jean-Jacques! But You should call me J.J. Do you want to become friends?


End file.
